


Three Abandoned Zuko AUs

by Tyranno



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Age Difference, Age-gap!Zuko & Azula, Airbender!Zuko, Alternate Universe, Gen, Ghost!Zuko, Zuko-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three different alternate universe fanfictions that have, for some reason or another, been abandoned. Answering the burning questions: </p><p>  <em></em><br/><strong>What if Zuko had been an airbender?</strong><br/><br/>And<br/><em></em><br/><strong>What if the Agni Kai with his father had actually killed him?</strong><br/><br/>And<br/><em></em><br/><strong>What if Azula had been born four years later?</strong><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Inglorious Prince

**Author's Note:**

> _(Just a side note, this one was written right after I'd read Vathara's Embers story, so it subscribes to her slightly embellished lore. Normal readers will understand anyway. Btw, I just also wanted to recommend that story too.)_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> One thing I really enjoy is going back through old fanfictions I've written but gave up on before publishing, and rereading them, editting them, adding to them. It's always nice to remember my differing interests, the things I used to feel so passionate about and still feel a slight twinge of nostalgia. 
> 
> And _boy_ was I passionate about this one scruffy fire nation prince.

The forest was drunk on green; neon grass waved in perfect unison with the tall, spacious trees, their large leaves casting just the right amount of shade on a spirit’s cooling black feathers. The wind crow, a dog-sized bird with an evil glint in his eyes, bounced across the smooth roots. He felt foolish and ungainly, walking, but taking to the air might catch the attention of the Autumn Lord, and that was the _last_ thing he needed.

 

The Autumn Lord... such a name brought pride to his chest, swelling his heart against his spider-thin ribcage, and perhaps, a tinge of guilt. The Autumn Lord had helped him when Agni had burnt his snowy feathers black. And now...?

 

The Autumn Lord preached forgiveness for all things, life was too precious to be tainted with hate and despair. Only when you forgive them, can your enemy forgive themselves.

 

But the Wind Crow was not Autumn Lord.

 

Agni had overstepped the mark, or at least, his blessed had.

 

A hundred men, peaceful as the air, slaughtered like cattle—no, _worse_ than cattle, slaughtered like _traitors_ —that, he could not forgive.

 

Regardless, he had no intention of cursing anyone.

 

The wind crow dipped his head, beak snapping softly, an aquiline version of a wince.

 

Perhaps in this place, a blessing would be worse than a curse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was autumn, the trees wavered in the winds, and Prince Ozai was watching his children fight.

 

Not verbally, arguments and shouting was for peasants, royalty _fought_ , and Agni helped the true victor prevail. Of course, Ozai doubted Agni bothered with practice fights, but it was not like his daughter needed the Great One’s help.

 

It turned out to be a very slightly more exciting fight, since he’d banned fire-bending this time. Not that it mattered to his non-bending son, but his daughter had to push herself a little harder.

 

The wind howled hollowly over the roofs, like breath over an empty bottle, shaking the tiles and worrying the windows in their panes.

 

The leaves span up with their steps, echoing their movements before pitching back towards the earth. Azula sent a swift kick to her brother’s head, which he dodged with ease, sliding back on the earth. Zuko jumped at her, but she caught her momentum easily, slinking out of the way.

 

Not a spark flew as she aimed another punch at Zuko’s head, and this time he didn’t have time to dodge. He stumbled back, dazed, and Azula didn’t wait for him to regain his balance. She charged.

 

Zuko’s arm shot out, falling short.

 

For a moment, time stopped in shock.

 

It was like someone had snatched Azula’s hair, yanking her backwards full force, almost snapping her neck. For a moment, she hung there, arm half-outstretched, feet half off the floor.

 

And time caught up with itself.

 

Azula was pushing herself up, rubbing her elbows, embarrassed, but more confused.

 

Zuko was equally confused, eyes wide. His brain hadn’t caught up, and he was still sprawled in the dust.

 

Everyone was staring. In the corner of Ozai’s eye, Lady Ursa began her gentle clapping as per her routine. She congratulated both Azula and Zuko equally, soft smile as flat and meaningless as always.

 

Both children were still startled, although, of course, Azula recovered almost immediately boasting about a lucky break, and her brother _finally_ catching up a little.

 

But Ozai wasn’t confused.

 

Ozai knew exactly what he saw.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It only took one glance at his wife to know this was the spirit’s work. For one, behind her soft smile he saw that same strong iron gaze he’d fallen in love with, she was truly Agni’s own, loyal to her dying breath. For another, she simply wouldn’t have the chance to have a consort, much less one with strong enough air-bending blood to overtake a fire-bender’s. It was customary for the bride to stay close to the groom while trying to conceive, for this very reason.

 

Ozai’s son, however much a disgusting mongrel, had Sozin’s own blood. And thus, as expected, was exceptionally hard to kill.

 

To start, it was surprisingly difficult to find an assassin both capable enough and trustworthy enough. A fire-nation assassin was out of the question, they were too close and too loyal to not betray his actions to the correct people. Even if they understood killing children was acceptable in some cases, he couldn’t let anyone live knowing his son was an _airbender_ , of all things.

 

Perhaps, had she been older, and stronger, he could have gotten Azula to perform the task. It would be the ultimate test of her loyalty. But she was too tied to her brother, he was her source of amusement and the judge of her genius, if she couldn’t be cruel to him, she would be cruel to her friends, and it would be difficult to deal with Lady Mai’s family after that.

 

Ursa loved her son too dearly, and even asking her would cause a rift between them, a rift Ozai couldn’t deal with. Ursa, was after all, clever as a knife and just as sharp, he needed her genius and strength when he became Firelord.

 

So he had to resort to Earth Kingdom assassins.

 

They were traitorous as dogs and just as dirty, but breaking a deal for them was like breaking loyalty for him.

 

It just couldn’t be done.

 

* * *

 

 

Zuko is an ill-omened child, lucky to be born. Every step he makes is fraught with every possible mistake.

 

He’s nine and he falls in the pond with full armour on, even though he was very careful going over the bridge. They haul him out, barely breathing, but with only a few minor scratches and bumps.

 

He’s nine and a half when the grand library collapses on him, scrolls bruising him and breaking one of his legs, he barely crawls out alive.

 

Its two months later when he finds poison fly-scorpion tails in his shoes moments before he was going to put them on.

 

He’s just turning ten when an assassin meant for the fire-lord gets the wrong room and slashes for his throat, when Zuko jumps up, and he misses his jugular by two inches and slashes at his collar bone instead. They find the man unconscious and the child covered in his own blood.

 

He’s been ten for three and a half months when he drinks his father’s drink by accident and spits out the acid. He’d lost his sense of taste ever since.

 

He’s scared of his own shadow by the time he’s a month away from being eleven and a earth kingdom archer nearly nails him to the wall, but the arrows fall lifeless at his feet instead (that’s been happening more and more, and it scares him.)

 

It’s his eleventh birthday when someone tries to smother him in his own bed, and fails, but barely, leaving him unconscious for hours. (His physicians say he must have very powerful lungs.)

 

Court ladies whispered that he’d got a bad spirit hanging around him, and that maybe it was time they called a Agni-blessed shaman, but they didn’t want to before his father does.

 

His father just sighed, irritably.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Zuko is not the boy Iroh remembers, when he comes back.

 

Azula is, of course, a complete replica of his brother at her age. It scares him more than he’d like to admit, seeing the shadow of Ozai in her long boast about how the sun wouldn’t dare rise if she didn’t permit it. He’d tried to help her when she was younger, but she was a lost cause, hearing only things she liked and discarding all else.

 

Zuko, however, resembled lost soldiers of war. His eyes were of a man who had been shaken to his core, tumbled about until his jarred mind worried the earth might rise against him, the sky might fall down and crush him, the walls will push him into himself until he’s nothing but meat. Zuko stood near the wall, but not against it, giving himself enough room to run. His eyes darted across the hall, drawing himself up into the shadows.

 

It worried Iroh. He smiled at the boy.

 

Zuko nodded, slightly.

 

Azula rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him, Uncle Iroh.” She pressed one fist into the palm of the other, and nodded her head. “If it doesn’t bother you, I would like to be excused.”

 

Iroh echoed her short bow, and nodded. “It doesn’t.”

 

Azula walked backwards from the room, and only turned her back when she was out of sight, as she was taught.

 

Iroh turned to Zuko.

 

Zuko flinched, and took an involuntary step back, but remembered himself and hurried through a bow.

 

“Don’t worry, about that, my nephew,” Iroh smiled, warmly, and took a step forward.

 

Zuko looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet stayed rooted to the ground. He swayed a little.

 

“Come. Let’s have tea.” Iroh beckoned towards his quarters.

 

Zuko’s eyes flashed across the hallway, as if trying to assess his chances with escaping, but he decided against it pretty quickly. He took a step, heavily, towards Iroh, and another.

 

Iroh began to walk slowly, trying not to get too close to his nephew.

 

It was difficult, like keeping an easily-startled deer-dog at heel, but eventually he led him through the large doors and towards his favourite tea-set, already neatly laid out and shinning.

 

Zuko crossed to the side closest to the door, and waited for him, as was polite.

 

Iroh tutted and ambled about, putting on his best friendly-uncle face, sighing about his old bones and wringing his hands.

 

Zuko carefully sat down opposite him, as Iroh heated the water.

 

“You know, Zuko, there’s no shame in being a non-bender,” Iroh said, off-handily, “Really none at all. Some of the best thinkers and strategists are. Less temper, most likely.”

 

Iroh pressed his hand to the bowl of the teapot, heating the water through his knobbly fingers.

 

Zuko nodded, on reflex.

 

Iroh swirled the water in the pot, before deftly sprinkling in some herbs.

 

“They thought Lu Ten was a non-bender, you know,” Iroh peered into the colouring water, “And nobody was particularly angry with him. He isn’t the strongest, even now, but he has a much cooler head, and can solve nearly every riddle I set him these days. He’s very good, you see.”

 

Zuko nodded, keeping his eyes respectfully low and his hands pushed into his lap.

 

Iroh looked at him, through the corner of his eye. He was only guessing what the problem was, it was a true mystery. This boy was still young, but he was in no part the bubbly seven year old that tugged at his trails and begged to hear the end of the story before bedtime. This Zuko, only four years older, looked deathly afraid, like a Great Spirit had marked him for death.

 

Iroh breathed in the warm smell of ginseng. “Do you smell that? It’s ginseng. My favourite. Do you have a favourite, Zuko?”

 

Zuko was about to shake his head, but blanched when he realised it might be seen as impolite. “N-no,” he said, hurriedly, “I don’t really drink tea.”

 

“Ah,” Iroh sighed, “A shame.”

 

It would have been nice, being quiet while still in the company of someone. He loved Lu Ten with all his might, but he did tend to have a mouth that constantly ran. He knew when to be quiet, but keeping silent about his tactics and battle plans around his soldiers and leaders made him almost burst. When he was with Iroh, drinking tea, he barely ever stopped talking and talking and talking, more to himself that to his father, following every train of thought until it counteracted another and sparked a second, his thoughts jumbled aloud and exhausting for an old man to keep up with. But Zuko was tensely silent, like he was just waiting for something disastrous to happen.

 

The tea is ready. One thing Iroh likes about ginseng, it doesn’t take too much time and trouble to brew. It was the first he learned, and it was the sweetest to his tongue to this day. It’s too strong to brew often, and variety is nice, but nothing beats an old friend.

 

He pours it into two cups, and sets one in front of Zuko.

 

Zuko hesitates, his hand hovering just around the cup, before picking it up and taking a gulp, all in one movement. His expression remained pretty similar.

 

Iroh smiled.

 

Zuko smiled weakly.

 

“Do you like it?” Iroh asked carefully.

 

Zuko almost shrugged, but managed to stop himself. “It is good tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side note: if you want to, you can totally adopt this fic or any of the others, _you totally can_. It's all cool. Just make sure you credit me for the bits I wrote, preferably with a link, and comment here again with a link to your new story, because I'd love love love to read it.


	2. Woe To The Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ghost One!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the ghost one!
> 
> Man, chapter titles are so nice, aren't they? I really like them, especially ones that sound real cool, fit well or are just really wacky. Usually my chapters are published too fast for me to think up a title for them... *sigh* (It takes me a super long time to think of a title)
> 
> This chapter's title is from an uncommon/alternate translation of Vae victis which is Latin for "woe to the vanquished", or "Woe to the conquered". Purely an aesthetic choice, I thought "fallen" fitted better.   
> The phrase means, in terms of morality, those who are the strongest will rule others and have the power to determine right and wrong.

“ _What the_ —” The water tribe child stumbled back, his fishbowl scattering.

 

The boy stood on the curve of the shoreline, icy water rolling past his pale ankles. He stood still, rumpled clothes drifting gently around his knees. The sea wind rolled across the tides, picking up his hair in fistfuls, dark in the night like crow’s feathers, sharp against the red setting sun.

 

The boy lifted his head slightly, blue light running smooth down his pale face. He turned his face.

 

The water tribe child screamed.

 

 

*

 

 

“C'mon, mum, there's a _ghost_!” The child tugged at his grandmother's thick parka.

 

“I'm sure you were just seeing things, Kaito,” His mother picked the small child's hands off the thick fur, brushing him off. “And whatever happened to the seaweed you were supposed to be collecting? Don't tell lies now.”

 

“It was really there, mum!” Kaito pouted, catching the fur at his grandmother's sleeves. “Really really!”

 

“If any thing _was_ there, it was a wandering spirit or a trick of the snow.” His mother lifted her arms out of reach, pushing Kaito back lightly. “You're not the first child come running to me about some hooky ghost or wendigo or some scary monster. If you're sorry you left the bowl out there, just say so. _Honestly_.”

 

“I'm _not_ lying!!” Kaito yelped, indignant. “There _was_ a ghost!” 

 

“Who's a ghost?” Sokka poked his head out of the tent, blinking against the brightness of the snow. 

 

“There's a ghost on the edge of the tundra!” Kaito swung his arm towards the ice-bergs. 

 

“What does he look like?” Sokka raised an eyebrow. 

 

“He's covered in blood!” Kaito beamed. “Half his face is missing!” 

 

“ _Really_?” Sokka grinned. 

 

“No, of course not,” Kaito's mother interrupted sternly, “Kaito, even if there was a ghost, don't you think it would only be fair to leave it be? I certainly wouldn't want to be bothered when I died.” 

 

“But he's probably lost and stuff! He's fire nation!” Kaito yelped. 

 

“Fire nation?” Sokka straitened up, dropping the net he had been weaving. “I've gotta go an inspect this, for the good of the village.”

 

“Don't try and weasel out of net-weaving, young man,” Kaito's mother shot him a sharp look. “Somebody's got to do it. It'll be there when you get back.”

 

Sokka huffed. “Well, I'm still going to go.”

 

“At least bring your sister.” Kaito's mother sighed.

 

“Katara?” Sokka yelped. “ _Why_?” 

 

“To keep you out of harm's way. There'll be no running around icebergs without a good water-bender on hand to fish you out of the ocean again.” Kaito's mother flicked a hand towards the tundra. “And that's final.”

 

“Fine.” Sokka muttered. 

 

 

*

 

 

“There he is—look!” Kaito bounded ahead. 

 

They all saw him. 

 

He was a snatch of colour on the white canvas of tundra. A fleck of blood red. 

 

Sokka snagged Kaito's hood and dragged him into step with them. “He's certainly red, for one,” Sokka raised an eyebrow. “What did he look like?” 

 

“Fire nation,” Kaito beamed, “Long black hair and gold eyes. Red robes. And half of his face was gone!”

 

“Gone?” Katara peered down at Kaito. 

 

“Burned off!” Kaito grinned. 

 

“How horrible,” Katara frowned. “I wish we could help him.”

 

“He's already a ghost, Katara,” Sokka rolled his eyes. 

 

“I know that!” Katara snapped, trudging through the snow. “But I can still feel sorry for him. Don't you?”

 

Sokka shrugged. 

 

“A ghost is made when someone dies a very violent death,” Katara tugged at her mittens. “ _I_ don't want to die like that.”

 

“You're not going to die,” Sokka said, definitely. 

 

Katara smiled a little. 

 

“Look, he's coming over here!” Kaito bounced, pointing wildly. 

 

The red blob began to move rapidly around the edge of the iceberg, growing closer with every second. Despite himself, Sokka felt a little fear spike in his chest, and he drew back, slipping into a fighting stance. 

 

As the ghost neared, Sokka's eyes widened in surprise. 

 

The ghost didn't walk on the water, but skimmed over the top like a boat, toes leaving wakes of icy water. As he slowed, he sunk down, feet disappearing under the ocean, levelling. He seemed to be waiting for something. 

 

“If the fire nation are using ghosts as spies, they must be sinking to a new low,” Sokka said. 

 

“Sokka!” Katara scolded. 

 

“I'm not a spy,” The ghost said quietly. “I'm dead.”

 

Hearing him speak was strange. His voice was thin and quiet, almost a hushed whisper. 

 

“Oh,” Sokka said, feeling stupid. “Well—how do we know for _sure_?”

 

“ _Sokka_! He's probably still upset,” Katara whispered sharply. “I know _I_ would be.” 

 

The ghost tilted his head a little. The burnt half of his face was making Sokka a little queasy. It was brilliant red and raw, like a slab of fresh meat, flesh peeling off bone. 

 

The ghost's eyes dropped to Kaito, who was edging closer. 

 

“Kaito!” Sokka yelped. “Get back from him!” 

 

Kaito pushed a hand through the ghost's chest. 

 

The ghost's image rippled like smoke. The dark orange robes settled around the boy's hand, flattening to the frozen folds and wrinkles of before. The ghost seemed just as surprised as the rest of them. 

 

“Kaito!” Sokka snatched the boy's shoulders and dragged him backwards. “Don't just stick your hand through strange ghosts!”

 

“So, are you lost?” Katara asked, brightly. 

 

“No.” The ghost murmured. 

 

Katara blinked. “But aren't ghosts supposed to haunt where they died? Or their old homes?”

 

“Maybe.” The ghost turned back to the tundra. “I don't though.”

 

“Why?” Sokka asked. 

 

“I died there.” The ghost was already drifting off into the sea, expression lost and vague. 

 

“Oh.” Sokka said, to empty air. 

 

 

*

 

 

The next time they met, Sokka was doing something very stupid. 

 

The ghost appeared suddenly, around the crack of the icebergs, dark red and feet bathed in freezing water.

 

“Gah, it's you!” Sokka yelped. He waved his oar at him. “Go away!”

 

The ghost's eyebrow dipped in some semblance of emotion. Anger, maybe. Or annoyance. “Turn back.”

 

“No!” Sokka swished his oar straight through the ghost's chest. “Go away!”

 

“Turn back. This is dangerous.” The ghost pulled through the water until he stood directly in front of the canoe. 

 

“What do you care? You're already dead!” Sokka gave up trying to bat him away and instead focussed on rowing. 

 

“Turn back,” The ghost floated in the middle of the canoe. “Why didn't you bring your sister? You are going to die out here.”

 

Sokka stumbled back, glaring. “What do you care?” 

 

The ghost floated back into the ocean. “What are you trying to prove? This is stupid and selfish. What good are you dead?”

 

Sokka growled at him. “I'm good enough on my own. I don't need her.”

 

The ghost watched him carefully, good eye bright and sharp, the other one hardly an eye at all. “Fine. But I will direct you.”

 

“No way.” Sokka stuck out his chin. “I can't trust you!” 

 

“What use are you to me, dead?” The ghost shook his head sharply. “Dead people don't fight wars.”

 

Sokka huffed. He was already feeling a little worried, but if he turned back now he'd have to explain things and apologise, and that would be an admission of failure. “Fine.”

 

The ghost nodded, and floated ahead. “This way.”

 

Sokka sighed and pushed the boat to follow him. “Thanks, Ghostie.”

 

The ghost wrinkled his nose. “I'm not called Ghostie.”

 

“Well then, what are you called?” Sokka huffed. “Oh, I guess I should introduce myself first. Hello, my name is Sokka.”

 

“I'm...” The ghost drifted through the waves, tension slipping from his shoulders. “I'm Zuko.”

 

He said it like an admission of something, like some grand secret, but it didn't mean anything to Sokka. “Nice to meet you, Zuko.”

 

The ghost turned his head a little. “Likewise.”

 

“So, how did you die?” Sokka leant out of the canoe. 

 

“This way,” Zuko pointed to a break in the ice-bergs, tear shaped. The water glinted brightly. “There's fish there. And, in answer to your question—” Zuko gestured to his ruined face. 

 

“Wow, that's what killed you?” Sokka shook his head. “That's rough, buddy.”

 

Zuko smiled a little, half-heartedly. 

 

Sokka grinned. And suddenly the silence felt a little more companionable. 

 

 

*

 

 

“Hey, Ghost?” Someone whispered into the night. “Ghost, are you out there?” 

 

The nights were dark. No light entered the frozen tundra, no moon to light the inky waters. But Zuko didn't need any light. 

 

The girl lifted the torch, blue eyes bright. She stared out into the depths of the darkness, searching for him. “Ghost?” 

 

Zuko crept closer, one hand on the ice-berg's side. 

 

The torch's flame beckoned him. He could feel it, stirring in his chest. He stayed back. 

 

“Ghost.” The girl smiled, in greeting. 

 

Zuko's eyes caught the lamplight, golden. 

 

“Thank you for what you did today, guiding my brother,” The girl smiled. “It was very kind of you.”

 

Zuko watched the flame flicker softly, like the wings of a baby bird. 

 

“Of course.” The girl breathed, lifting the torch towards him. “You're fire nation, aren't you? You don't get a lot of fire, around here.” 

 

Zuko tore his eyes away from the flame, guiltily. 

 

“We could light a few, along the coast. To keep you company,” The girl offered. 

 

“No.” Zuko said, suddenly. “You need those resources. It would be a waste.”

 

“It wouldn't be a waste.” The girl frowned, but inside she knew he was right. Ghost or no, when the wood was gone, it was gone. 

 

Zuko pulled back, tide taking him out. “Besides, I'm a ghost,” Zuko's voice layered with something like humour, “We're supposed to be lonely.”

 

The girl watched him go, something indescribable clouding her blue eyes. Just before Zuko disappeared completely, she startled as if just remembering something. “I'm Katara, by the way,” She called after him.

 

“Zuko,” Zuko said, slipping into the shadows. 

 

 

*

 

 

Much, much later, a boy cracks the iceberg like a shell, fresh and new for an old, scarred world. 

 

A little after that, the first ship in years docks into southern water tribe. 

 

It is small and brown, slightly rusted around the edges, hull a little battered, overall  un threatening. 

 

The man who steps out of it is even more so. 

 

Sokka approaches him warily, even though. “Who're you?” He asked. 

 

“No need to be worried, my boy. I am just an old man who has strayed too far from his course.” The man tugged lightly on his beard. “I'm a tea leaf trader.”

 

“Right. Who were you delivering to, the sealions?” Sokka raised an eyebrow. 

 

“The colder waters keep the leaves fresher.” The man smiled warmly. 

 

Sokka grumbled something, narrowing his eyes. 

 

“Who's that, Sokka?” Aang appeared from around the tent. 

 

The man's eyes widened. “Those clothes—it couldn't be… Are you the avatar?” 

 

Aang smiled sheepishly. “I… uh...” 

 

“You're kidding me. _You're_ the avatar?” Sokka yelped. 

 

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Sokka.” Aang scrubbed the back of his head. “It just never came up.”

 

“ _Never came up?_ ” Sokka asked. 

 

“My boy, if you're the avatar, we have much to discuss.” The trader smiled. 

 

“Hey! I thought you were a tea trader!” Sokka turned his attention on the old man. “Since when were you interested in the avatar?”

 

“I'm sorry. But I didn't lie, I am a tea trader. I'm also...” The trader sighed. “Perhaps we ought to discuss this over some ginseng?” 

 

“Actually—” Sokka started. 

 

“Sure!” Aang bounded after him.

 

“ _Actually_ ,” Sokka caught the back of Aang's robes, “I think we should talk out here. And not in your possibly dangerous ship. No offence.”

 

“It is fine.” The trader smiled. “I will bring the kettle out here. Cold weather makes a warm drink better anyway.”

 

 

*

 

 

“It is nice, isn't it?” The trader rubbed his hands over the fire, smiling. 

 

“It is.” Aang grinned. “I haven't had tea since...” He trailed off, stunned. “...Nearly a hundred years...” he muttered. 

 

The trader smiled a little sadly. 

 

Sokka warmed his hands over the fire, sighing. It was nice, the tea. Not to drink, but the sweet flowery scent thickened the air was nice. 

 

The fire crackled softly. Whispers. 

 

“Who are you, then?” Sokka said, finally. 

 

“My name is Iroh.” The trader said, quietly. “I used to be General Iroh, brother of Firelord Ozai.”

 

Sokka stared. “The  _firelord_ …?” 

 

“Yes,” Iroh rubbed a hand over his heavy face. “I was all for the war, when I was young and foolish. I thought it would bring us honour. I thought it was the way things had to be.”

 

The tea swirled like molten gold in his cup. 

 

“But my son died at the front.” Iroh lifted his head to the cool breeze. “Still, I did not see. I had known other deaths, and my son died bravely. I retracted my troops and returned home in disgrace. But my brother, he was not the man I thought him to be.”

 

He took a long drink of the tea. The tale seemed hard to tell, like cutting off a finger. Pain danced across his features. “He saw an opportunity. He asked the then-firelord Azulon to become crown prince. He said I was mad and weakened by the loss of Lu  T en, my son. But this angered Azulon.”

 

The fire popped, spitting embers that hissed in the snow. The silence was thick and flowery. 

 

“So Ozai went to prove to Azulon, that he was stronger than I.” Iroh's voice was a whisper, brushing inaudibility. It was hard to hear over the fire and the wind. “So he killed his only son.”

 

Aang took a sharp breath. 

 

Sokka stared, heart sinking like lead. He couldn't quiet believe someone—anyone could do  _anything_ like that to someone they loved, someone in their family, let alone their own son. It was hard to breathe. 

 

“Uncle...?” The voice carried across the frozen ground, from the choppy waters. 

 

Iroh stood up, suddenly, face washed with surprise. “ _Zuko_ ?” 

 

Zuko floated at the edge of the ice, pale eye wide. He floated  further out, backing off. 

 

“Wait, nephew!” Iroh leapt after him, skidding on the ice. 

 

“Don't follow me.” Zuko shouted, worried. 

 

“Nephew, listen to me,” Iroh walked closer to the edge. 

 

“Don't!” Zuko yelped. 

 

The ice cracked like breaking bones


	3. A Certain Slant Of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Age gap one! Azula was born four years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal favourite. 
> 
> I remember accidentally keeping myself up, too excited to keep writing this story before I went to school the next morning to sleep. I ended up staying up too late, falling asleep on the keyboard and nearly being late for school. Those were the days, huh :)

By the time Ozai and Ursa’s second child is born, the Prince is used to being out of sight.

 

It might have been difficult, but by the fifth failed pregnancy, Ursa looked at him with painfully sad eyes, and his father’s eyes were just painful. So he hid behind tapestries and wandered the long, deserted back corridors, slinking through the shadows like a ghost. When he wasn’t disgracing his father and exasperating his tutors, he retraced his steps through hidden passages, trapdoors and servant’s corridors, sometimes days at a time.

 

But when Azula was born, he was hanging around outside the door, awkward and shuffling.

 

The door opened and a servant bustled past him, hair loose and face pink, a scroll clutched in her hand.

 

Through the open door, he saw his mother, a baby in her arms.

 

“Come in, Zuko.”

 

He started, and slunk through the door, stopping a foot from the bed. He peered at the wriggling baby, almost afraid to ask “Is she...?”

 

“She’s fine, Zuko,” She smiled gently, pushing a lock of hair out of her face. “Completely healthy and strong.”

 

Zuko reached out a hand and the baby caught his finger.

 

“Do you want to hold her?” Ursa asked, shifting the baby in her arms.

 

Zuko nodded too many times, and gathered the tangle of limbs and sheets as gently as he could.

 

The baby’s eyes turned on him, pale gold and unfocused. It— _she_ —seemed to consider him for a moment or two, before her face began to fold and redden, a deep wail shaking from the bottom of her tiny lungs.

 

“Ah! U-u-m,” Zuko cast a fearful glance at his mother, who only smiled wearily. “No, nono, shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, in his best comforting voice, “Shh, don’t worry, , it’s okay.”

 

The baby’s wails lessened and died down. She squirmed and tried to roll over, and Zuko hastily gave her back to Ursa.

 

Ursa smiled sadly, and cradled her close. “What do you think I should name her?”

 

“Uh,” Said Zuko.

 

Ursa looked down at her newborn. “Something to please the Fire Lord.”

 

Zuko winced. Fire Lord Azulon had been particularly angry with him last year, when he’d _finally_ , at the age of _eight_ , bent his first flame. He straightened up, folding his hands in his silk robes. “What about calling her Azulon.”

 

“Azulon...?” Frowning, Ursa held her baby’s hand with her finger and thumb, as if directing the question at her. “Hmm... Azula is a good, strong name.”

 

Zuko nodded. Twice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

At ten, Zuko spends almost no time alone.

 

He’d long swapped wandering for trailing after Azula like a stray dog. For a little while, when Azula was younger, she’d opted for rolling around, but these days all she was interested in was speed.

 

Her pudgy limbs scrambled across the courtyards and open grasses at alarming speeds, and needed Zuko constantly on hand to stop her speeding into servants, poles and ponds.

 

She laughs too, and _loudly_. Her ear-busting peals of laughter echoed forever in the empty halls, eerily sharp and clear.

 

Ursa’s always tired these days, withering in her room away from her children, her husband, so Azula only brightens when her brother appears, lifting her short arms, a precedes to get in the worst possible trouble.

 

She’s a trouble magnet just like her unlucky brother, but seems to attract trouble deliberately, putting Zuko in increasingly embarrassing situations; _‘I didn’t know she was going to pull your wife’s robes down, I’m so sorry!’_

 

Zuko’s the only one there when she starts walking too.

 

Azula pushes off her knees and stumbles a few steps, landing square on her face. She shrinks and begins to wail.

 

Zuko bounds over, scooping her up awkwardly (she’s a bit heavier than he remembers) “Wow! That was so great Azula!”

 

Azula makes an odd growling noise, scrunching up her nose.

 

Zuko cooed, “Hey, its’—”

 

“Prince Zuko!”

 

Zuko falls back on his heels, turning to the corridor. A stern-looking tutor stared him down.

 

“Prince Zuko, you are late for your lessons! This tardiness and disregard for your studies will be reported to your father!” The tutor glared at him. “You will put Princess Azula down and follow me to the libraries!”

 

Zuko’s blood ran cold, and he slowly loosened his hold on his sister.

 

“Now, Prince Zuko!”

 

Zuko set Azula down as gently as he could, and followed his tutor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was May, and the courtyard was bright, brilliant green. It shone like a gem, and the small, dark-red wicked thing bounced across it like a frog. Azula was most definitely bored. Aside from the daily readings of Fire-Nation-Princess-appropriate stories and myth, there was nothing to do.

 

Her father had order the servants to make her get as much fresh air and exercise as possible two years ago, and had not changed his orders since. Thus Azula was left to bat at the regularly trimmed grass and stare at the sky.

 

She was waiting for her brother.

 

Of course she was waiting for Zuko! He was endlessly fun to tease and prank; and he told her things, his lessons and stuff, and, well, he was _something_! She was _so_ bored!

 

Azula had cried and wailed to get attention, but all she got was a servant picking her up and holding her until she stopped. That got dull quickly, _very_ quickly.

 

She stopped bouncing sat down firmly, letting out a deep, deep sigh.

 

Time to concentrate.

 

For the millionth time, she stretched out her hand and closed it into a fist.

 

Zuzu’d told her about learning ages and ages and ages ago!!

 

She pushed, feeling the warmth in her bones. She pushed and pushed and pushed, screwing her eyes shut. Pushpushpush!! Push!! Pushpush!! Pushpushpushpush—

 

“Wow,” A familiar voice breathed.

 

Azula snapped opened her eyes and the flame winked out. She stared at Zuko’s stunned face, and then to her hand.

 

She laughed.

 

High-pitched, wavering peals of laughter; ear-splittingly loud. “Zuzu!” She exclaimed, still laughing.

 

“Azula! That’s amazing!” Zuko whispered.

 

She grinned like a mad thing, and pushed again. This time, the flame sprang quicker, still dim and weak, but _there_. She giggled and giggled and giggled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Its early autumn, and the leaves are as red as their clothes and as gold as their eyes.

 

Zuko is tired, sick of listening to how well he should be doing and how awful he is. He’s tired of working his hardest every day. He’s tired of spending countless hours trying to recall facts that slip through his mind like sand through an hourglass.

 

Azula is spinning through the leaves, forming the same kata again and again, but keeping her fire at bay from the brittle leaves. The masters were wary of teaching a four-year-old anything other than the very basics of breath control and had only recently taught her the first move.

 

She’s mastered it, of course, but now she was bored again.

 

Zuko leant against the tree; tired eyes following his _perfect_ sister trace the move that’d taken him two weeks to memorise.

 

As hard as he wanted to, he didn’t have the energy to be jealous of her. She was perfect, and brilliant, a prodigy, and he was a failure; but every time he looked at her he saw the giggling wicked little trouble magnet he’d chased after for years. It rubbed, her talent, but barely.

 

He was just _tired_. His soul ached. He’d been failing for _so_ long he didn’t remember anything else.

 

Zuko’s eyes drifted shut.

 

“Zuzu!”

 

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, squinting at his sister.

 

“ _Please_ teach me the next form.”

 

Zuko smiled a little. “I can’t. Your tutors say you need rest.”

 

“I’m not going to rest!! I’m a girl, not _dying_!!”

 

Zuko frowned a little, and then sighed. “Fine.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first time Azula meets Prince Iroh, she is five.

 

It confuses her. Princes in tales were young men; and here was an _ancient_ prince; almost as old as Grandfather (not that she’d seen him that often) and definitely not princely! Princes were either handsome and noble, or arrogant and stuck-up. But Prince Iroh was neither, he was soft-spoken and smiling. Perhaps someone had made a mistake.

 

Iroh turns his soft smile on her, and she frowns at him, folding her arms behind her back. She circles him warily, scrunching up her eyes.

 

He laughs a deep, belly laugh, and it catches her off guard. Zuko’s laughs are always quiet and huffing (Mother and father didn’t laugh much, and the servants only offered a tired smile most of the time) so she hadn’t heard one quite so _loud_.

 

Azula stumbles back, narrowing her eyes.

 

Iroh didn’t react, keeping his smile humble and soft.

 

She didn’t know how long she was willing to stand there, staring him down, but luckily she didn’t have to find out.

 

“Uncle?!” Zuko appeared from behind a pillar, grin bright.

 

“Nephew! It’s been too long.” Prince Iroh puts a heavy hand on Zuko’s shoulder.

 

Zuko beamed. “This is Azula,” He gestured to her.

 

“Ah, so this is my niece...” Iroh smiled at her, but for the slightest moment, she saw a calculating look, assessing her. As if he deemed her acceptable, he closed his eyes in a wide smile. “I can tell you’re a very clever young girl. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

 

“ _Liar._ ” Azula said quietly.

 

Zuko started, and laughed, taking a step away from Iroh. But Crown Prince Iroh looked startled, and for the tiniest moment, unsettled. The moment it appeared, however, he returned to the long-practiced humble smile.

 

Azula glares. She doesn’t like him already.

 

“So how is Lu Ten?” Zuko asks, still slightly awed by his uncle.

 

Iroh turns away from Azula, and looks relieved. “He is well. He is unfortunately still outside Ba Sing Se, although, if you keep it between us...” He glanced each way in mock-suspicion, and leant forward, “...He won’t need to much longer.”

 

Zuko beamed.

 

“Prince Iroh?” A servant asked flatly, “Fire Lord Azulon is ready to commence the meeting.”

 

“Ah. Well, come on, Zuko, we must be moving.” Iroh beckoned to the servant to leave.

 

The servant did not move. “Prince Ozai has objected to his son’s presence in the war meeting.”

 

Zuko’s heart dropped, and he took a few steps back. Iroh frowned softly, but nodded. “Another time, my nephew.”

 

Zuko nodded numbly, head low.

 

He slunk slowly down to the courtyard, shadowed by his younger sister. His face was red and unbearably hot, his eyes screwed shut. What had he done now!? _Everything_. He barely scraped by normally, working as hard as he could for the smallest unnoticeable improvements, pushing and pushing against failure after failure.

 

The familiar trees and fountain and grass did nothing to settle the irritating scratching of embarrassment that climbed up his neck and heating him unbearably. What could he do! This was so unfair!!

 

“Zuzu?”

 

Zuko huffed angrily, flopping down on the soft grass, clenching his fists. _Calm down_ , he said sternly to himself, _Before you barbecue something you’d rather not._

 

Azula tilted her head, squinting at her brother. She stuck out her tongue, trotting over to him. “Zuzu?”

 

Nothing. He was still and smoking.

 

She jumped on his stomach.

 

Zuko sat up quickly, sending her sprawling onto his lap. She flipped neatly up and landed in front of him.

 

“Yes, Azula?” He asked, wearily.

 

“What’s wrong?” She asked, folding her arms.

 

He sighed, scowling. “Nothing.”

 

“Liar!!” She said, very matter-of-fact for a five year old. “Tell me the truth, _scoundrel_ , I _implore_ you!!”

 

Zuko stared at her. Then, slowly, very slowly, like a dam cracking, he let out a small, weak laugh.

 

She smiled, triumphant.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Prince Ozai,” Iroh asked, “May I enquire as to why you didn’t allow Prince Zuko’s presence at this meeting?”

 

Ozai’s eyes glinted like embers. His gaze swept the room, malice glinting deep in gold. “Because I would like to finalise something. The boy is weak and soft, I suspect only combat with rectify this. I request his presence on the siege.”

 

Iroh stared.

 

Zuko was young and bright, despite his father’s attempt to tarnish him. He kept his heart open and hopeful. Combat would tear him apart. He narrowed his eyes at his brother.

 

_But that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?_

 

He couldn’t deny him. Lu Ten may have been trained more, but he was Zuko’s age when he joined the army.

 

Zuko would just be one more tradegy.

 

“Alright,” Iroh said, at length. “I accept.”

 

For a moment, Ozai looked happy.


End file.
